


Stars Hide Your Fires

by Arlyshawk



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 05:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7496466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlyshawk/pseuds/Arlyshawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Masters of the mind do not always know what will come next. Strategists never count on a third party, just like one never counts on a woman or child being a spy. Truly, no one knows what will come next until it happens. </p><p>Rhaegar survives the Battle of the Trident and the timeline changes, somewhat, but other things are unavoidable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> “Stars hide your fires;  
> let not light see my black and deep desires:  
> The eyes wink at the hand;  
> yet let that be which the eye fears, when it is done, to see”  
> ― William Shakespeare, Macbeth

“Bring him to me; alive and unharmed,” The Lady’s voice is clear, concise. “A battle will begin upon the shores of the Trident in week’s time. The prince must be taken down by your hand with the potion I gave you to fake a death. Cripple Robert Baratheon, as if he was dealt a harmful blow. When you take Rhaegar from the fight, explain to him what the King has done and will do. Do you understand?”

They kneel before the lady, unflinching from the wounds suffered in the hall by children with knives. They are children, they are a man - no one in their eyes, but the lady has bequeathed them with a name. _Valerian,_ for the root she had told them when they met years ago. They will lose their name soon. Perhaps they feel sad? There is an ache in their chest, somehow unfamiliar.

“This one understands,” They reply, numb. There is blood seeping beneath the door. The lady stands in the sheer light of day, silver-gold hair alight like white fire. She beckons them to stand with a gentle flick of the wrist and they rise, standing far taller than her. They grip the pommel of their knives, “Shall this one use the spider tunnels?”

“You shall, take the swiftest steed you find in the stables and find a suitable place to begin your wait,” The lady says with softness. Her kind, periwinkle eyes are smiling. They lie, those eyes. They know her better, they know that a smile is a lie, always.  They turn on their heel and begin to leave, but are stopped by the lady. Her face is hard all of a sudden, “Thank you, Valerian, for your service.”

They lower their eyes, “The lady is kind, but we are no one. Valerian is dead.”

“Of course..”

Without another word, they are gone into the still of the night. Six day’s ride and a stop to steal the garb of a Baratheon soldier and they take up a place in an oak tree whose limbs climb, high up into the clear night sky.

The bow on their back is heavy as they hop down and begin to move rocks and stones along enemy lines, where a horse’s hoof might slam down in the throws of a fight. They hear horse hooves at last when dawn breaks through the thick blanket of night, slamming the ground like peals of thunder rattle the sky. 

The stag’s forces break upon the water as the dragon’s do, hard and fast. warriors clash together like lions fighting; pawing, stabbing, clutching, for the upper hand upon the slick river stones. Below, the ground turns to mud and is stained with red veins, churning by boots and hooves. 

And then at once, the lines of stag forces fall to their knees. 

A mare’s scream heralds the first fall, before others follow suit, falling face first into the water. Torrents of water rise from fallen horse corpses. And riders rise from beneath their fallen steeds, clutching shattered knees and broken legs. Others are not so lucky, their skulls are caved in as they go crashing down upon boulders the size of small hounds. Others are fools and catch steel in their throats. They fall, gurgling, choking, vomiting blood from dry, cracked lips. 

A bellow draws their attention from the fray, from the rising, sickening smell of dirt and blood. Robert Baratheon, in his armor of ebon and bright, summer gold, strides across the battlefield, swinging his great warhammer like one twirls a twig. They feel no fear in seeing the bear of a man parting the battlefield. Out of the corner of their eye, rubies wink at them. Drawing their bow from their back, they set it in their lap as they withdraw the vial of indigo liquid from their pouch, dipping the head of an arrow into it. Their final mission, their final gift. 

As the lords approach one another, circling one another like wolves, they draw back an arrow. And fire when the sun reflects upon crimson armor.


	2. Rhaegar I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly, the beginning chapters will be edited for content, as I come back into writing this behemoth. Sorry for the delay everyone. :)

There is a pain that awakens him, a blinding white-hot pain that courses down his arms to the tips of his fingers when he attempts to make them move. They twitch and he grinds his teeth when the pain forms spots behind his eyes, dancing like flickering stars on a clear night. He thinks of clutching his sword, the blade must be nearby. He had fallen from Sunfyre when an arrow caught his shoulder as he crossed the ford and he had fallen blind into the river, world spinning. Rhaegar uses his uninjured hand, the one that grasps his shield and searches the river.

But there is no river. There is stone beneath him, hard stone, it feels like home through his worn gloves. He is cold and wet from the river, yes, but the humid air around him speaks differently. This place smells of ash and dust, of the shadowed rooms where he would read at his mother's knee. Opening his eyes, he sees that it is indeed his mother's solar. His mother's solar had always been a quiet room, it had been the only room where he would escape to from his father's black rages. It's the only room in the Red Keep that you can't hear the screams in. The sun streams in from large paned windows framing an oaken desk that is carved with daisies and dragon scales, the wood thickly lacquered until one could see their reflection clearly in its surface.  The memories he has of this place are fuzzy, worn round the edges like old tomes. What remains are visions of his lady-mother, round with Viserys, singing a song of the ancients to him.

He rises on too-stiff legs, clutching the woven chair that his mother loves so. His armor scrapes the floor, a high pitched hiss rises that makes his ears ring. Looking over, the armor on his dominant side is crumpled, the fine onyx steel wrinkling and the rubies from his breastplate have fallen onto the floor like rain beading on glass. There is little wonder as to _why_ he could not move his hand when the steel has been gored. He sets on taking off the gauntlet but his fingers refuse to work as well as they should.

"Rhaegar.." His mother's voice startles him. He glances over his shoulder to see her lingering in the doorway like pale shadow. Her skin is ashen and the lines of her face are hard with weariness. His lady mother's amethyst eyes give him a cursory glance and worry follows close behind to twist her face. His heart falls into his stomach. She approaches him on quiet, slippered feet at once, touching the wrinkling metal with hesitant hands. "Your arm.. Can you move it?"

"Not well," He says as she undoes the buckles of the armor for him. It's a lie. When he tries to move it to show her that he is well the same blinding pain spirals up his arm straight to his head. Mother grabs a hold of his free hand and holds him steady, eyes dark with concern.

"You lie terribly, my son," His mother chides, smiling, "No doubt the hunter that was tasked with finding you did not treat you as kindly as I would've hoped."

Rhaegar doesn't hesitate, "Hunter?"

His lady mother stares up into his face with a face of set steel and says nothing more of the subject. He won't deny the strange sickness he gets in his belly from her silence. He lets his mother look over his arm, watching her dimly out of the corner of his eye as she undoes cinches and too tight clasp. There is the distant sound of a door slamming shut and he watches as she tenses, back ramrod straight. Why does he get the sensation of being lied to? Enough of that. What happened on the Trident? Why does the world seem to be seen through kaleidoscope glass? Rhaegar remembers with a bit of haze, Ser Barristan riding beside him at the head of the column, Jonothor and Lewyn made up the sides of the regiment. The Trident had been in sight, so close, but barely a step into the frigid river water Sunfyre screamed. He had fallen from her and into a world of pitch black. 

The sound of the door opening and closing quickly doesn't prepare him for the full weight of his little brother's body being thrust toward him. The wind goes out of him at once as Viserys clings to his midsection with all of his might, "You're home!" 

He runs his fingers through his brother's mussed silver hair, embracing him tight to his chest with his good arm. Viserys looks up at him with his amethyst eyes, the sunken features of his brother's face all of a sudden red and puffy, no doubt from tears. A shriek startles him, fingers midway through his brother's hair, to see a familiar sight. Rhaena Velaryon lingers in the doorway to his mother's solar with Rhaenys in his arms. She is of Old Valryia as much as he and his mother are, all silver-golden hair and soft purple eyes. Stress bundles up in his chest in a knot. Those eyes of Rhaena's are never truthful, not even in moments of privacy. 

His daughter crows at the sight of him, a bright smile on her face. She is three and a half and every inch a daughter of Dorne. She looks like his Elia, painfully so, down to the umber curls on her head to the dimples on her cheeks when she smiles. He smiles at her despite the echoing ache he feels looking at her. Rhaena brings her closer to him, letting her settle onto his good arm. She presses a sloppy wet kiss on his cheek and hooks her little fingers partly into his shoulder and hair. As he looks at her, he sees the only Targaryen feature on her. Her eyes. They're a beautiful shade of amethyst, like his mother's and brother's, but they shine when she smiles. Now, they're so bright that he swears that she has purple stars for eyes. 

"Papa.." Rhaenys stage whispers to him, suddenly serious, "Mama said you might not come home."

Rhaegar kisses the tip of her nose, "I am now, my princess."

His daughter giggles, pressing her face against his shoulder. There's the sound of boots scuffing the ground that draws his attention next, however hazy it might be. A girl of four and ten lingers in the archway of his mother's solar, framed by shadows, her golden hair neatly coiled around to her shoulder. He had not known better, he might've thought her a Lannister's bastard. He's met this girl before, one that trails after Rhaena in the Keep like a bright shadow. 

"Milady," The girl declares, "We must leave. The lions have begun to storm the keep."

His heart feels as though it might clench and stop. He echoes, "Leave?"

Rhaena ignores him, "Find Ser Willem Darry - have him prepare the passageways to the harbor."

"What have you done?" 

His voice doesn't feel his own, but Rhaena eyes him nonetheless. The softness that accompanied her periwinkle eyes is gone now, replaced with something that turns them almost indigo. Her face is hard, features seemingly made of iron and steel when she folds her spindly hands over her sternum.

"We are leaving for Dragonstone. I have asked it of Ser Willem Darry to accompany us across the sea to the keep," She transfixes a cold stare on him, "And my suggestion would be to bind that arm of yours before we leave."

A frown creases his mouth and he wrinkles his brow, burying the feeling of ire deep within himself. He would be king one day, a king that is unlike his father, one that is kind and venerable. He would not be a tyrant, he would not raise his voice, not now. But he doesn't deny the burning sensation that streaks across his chest. Rhaegar takes a deep breath, offers Rhaenys to Viserys, and rises from his place. 

"You cannot expect me to leave, not now," Rhaegar states, his shadow easily towering over Rhaena, yet she sees unfazed. "These people - peasants or not - are my people and I will defend each and every one of them! The Lannisters will rape and kill whoever they find. They ride with no decent men of honor." 

Her eyes bore holes in his head, "Honor was dead the moment you were deemed dead on the battlefield. Now.. If you want to stay here and die through wildfire as Aerion Brightflame did since you are too stubborn to look past your sense of chivalry, then be my guest. It will be all the harder to put a decent Targaryen on the throne if you are dead." 

"What purpose is there in keeping me alive? You have Viserys, you do not need me!" 

"You miss the intention of my words, Rhaegar. I need you because you are the eldest, because you are a man grown and your brother is a boy. Who would the common folk muster around? Who would the noble houses rally for?" She makes to move, but not before giving him a cursory once-over. "It is you they will raise their Targaryen banners for, not your brother.. So, I say again, we are leaving for Dragonstone with Ser Willem Darry. Now, not later." 

He looks to his mother when Rhaena is gone, disappearing in a swirl of sea green and silver silken skirts with the golden haired girl at her heels. His mother sits in a high backed chair and offers him a sympathetic look. He kneels at her side, taking her hand into his own, thumb going over her garnet ring that she wears on her right hand. She smiles at him before making to rise, Viserys immediately hurrying over to her side to follow her out the doors and down to the docks. In the back of his mind, he thinks of what has befallen Elia. The thought of Lyanna passes his mind as well when he starts down the hall, wondering if she would live. 


	3. Rhaena I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I decided with some thought to play with the theory of Jon being the son of Ashara Dayne and Eddard Stark. This will edited accordingly.

Rhaena loses everything. 

Her spies are put to the sword; the bad ones have their heads taken off, the rest are poisoned in their sleep because Varys knows that her good spies would fight back to some degree. Rook is the only one she keeps close, because the girl would be, no doubt, raped and killed. And it terrifies her. Rook's a comely girl of four and ten, with smatters of freckles and golden hair that she wears in a thick braid. She doesn't deserve to be alone in the pit of lions that King's Landing will become. 

Rook sits across from her in her rooms in Dragonstone, one that overlooks the vast number of Targaryen ships that sway in the azure and lace capped waves. Briny air goes whistling through the hallways of Dragonstone and Rhaena shivers. Once, she was used to the cold that blows off the coasts, now she is used to the air of King's Landing, the sort of heat that used to be insufferable is something she misses. Rhaena props her chin on her hand that lies nestled in a wool blanket. 

Rook is knitting across from her, the clicking of her needles the only thing that anchors Rhaena to the room because her mind seems to be drifting from her own body as of late. She doesn't know what causes it, only that it perturbs her. 

"Milady?" Rook says with the voice of a mouse. Rhaena turns her gaze over to her spy. Rook isn't looking at her, her hands are shaking, and she's chewing her lip, "Why'd you take me from King's Landing? My place was there in the Keep." 

Rhaena hears the elder Prince in Rook, but she knows that the two aren't one in the same. Rook is scared of breaking the rules after her years as a slave, Rhaegar simply takes his role as Prince seriously. Perhaps too much sometimes, she thinks for a moment, because its nauseating at certain points. 

Rhaena reaches out and touches Rook's shaking hands, stalling them and allowing the girl to look her in the eyes, "Rook, I kept you because of what I knew would happen." 

The girl won't look at her again, "But my place --" 

"Rook, look at me, sweetling," The girl does as she says on command like an obedient dog. "The Lannister men would have beaten, raped, killed you, and strung you up on the ramparts like they have the Targaryen loyalists. I found you when you were but ten - why would I abandon you now to be mauled?" 

Rook's big, blue doe eyes are watery, "I-I often forget, milady. My apologies." 

"You've nothing to be sorry for, my dear," She takes the edge of the blanket and dries the tears that trickle down Rook's face. Smiling, she rubs away another that goes slipping down her cheek with the pad of her thumb, "You're more than just a piece to me, Rook, you're the daughter I cannot have and I love you more than the moon loves the sun's gaze." 

Rook manages a smile, sheepish, but there and it does Rhaena's heavy heart some measure of good to see her would-be daughter smile. Without another word, Rhaena leans back in her chair and watches the dexterous movements of Rook's knitting and listens to the gulls crying outside her windows. She knows that the princess, Rhaenys, likes to feed the gulls the bits of week old bread that the cooks don't have a use for and often, Rhaena can hear the girl shrieking with delight as the birds take the food from her hands. A few times, she's helped the princess by keeping the bread in a sack while the girl shoves her little hands in and fetches bits of bread for her feathered friends. 

She notes that Rhaenys hasn’t come bounding up to her door in weeks, asking if they can go feed the birds because as Rhaenys puts it, she likes Rhaena. She calls Rhaena pretty, like her grandmother and often wants to braid her hair like her mama did for her. 

Rook's needles stop at once, "The prince has been acting strange, milady." 

Rhaena turns her periwinkle eyes on her spy and cocks her head, "How so?" 

The words seem hard to figure, she sees it in the way Rook purses her lips and she drops her needles to write on her leg with a single digit, "He.. seems forlorn, almost. There is a deep set melancholy in him that was not there when we left King's Landing. He plays his harp on the docks late into the night…" 

"Does it bother you?" 

Rook's face twists with surprise, "I-It seems strange." 

"Rhaegar was born in the shadow of Summerhall, Rook, something that you are too young to know about. Its.. given him a certain melancholy that Princess Elia spoke frequently of. He was angry for my decision that I made for him and now that it has waned, perhaps the old him is beginning to shine through." 

"Will you tell him..?" Rook looks physically uneasy, as if there is something on her skin. She gives Rhaena a frightened look because of the note that lies rolled up on the desk, sealed with a purple star wax seal. "About.. What happened?" 

A bubble of something that's like frustration and guilt rises in her chest. She doesn't like what's on that scroll, but the truth hurts more than a lie, even if it brings her some comfort. She glances for a long moment at the scroll that flutters slightly in the breeze and then back to Rook. 

"Perhaps it would be for the best. It's been a few months, after all." 

"He will hate you for not telling him sooner." 

"Then that's his problem and not mine. Tis hardly my fault that Ashara took her time in sending the letter." 

Rook's brow furrows, "Is that the lie you wish to tell him? After you blindsided him?" 

Rhaena rises, shedding her blanket, and strides to the letter, "Do you have a simpler way?" 

"Tell him the _whole_ truth, my lady." 

"What he doesn't know, will not kill him." 

"You expect the prince to trust you, yet you lie to him." 

"Rook," She turns and gives her spy a hard look. "Now is not the time for a questioning of morals, now is the time to tell the prince what happened to Lyanna and her son." 

"Even if it means lying?" 

"I lied to Ardrian for nearly ten years over the dispute of an heir when I could not bear him one," The voice is one that she uses when she used to speak to Aerys. She feels her throat get tight and her mouth twitches with the thought of a snarl. For a moment, she begins to roll the letter but puts it down. She knows the letter by heart by now. 

Rhaena makes her way down from her rooms, thick skirts dragging behind her. Her family colors fit her now, she thinks when the dim, clouded sun hits the silver thread of her gown and she spies the hem shimmering like waves even in the shadow of the great, onyx dragons that roar atop the ramparts of Dragonstone. It makes her feel some semblance of happiness, considering the lack of what she has felt lately. Her thoughts are interrupted by a shrill laugh. Across the yard, she spies Princess Rhaenys, Queen Rhaella, and young Prince Viserys, all walking hand in hand. The queen is beginning to grow heavy with her child, but she doesn't wear her fatigue at all. In fact, the woman is bright with life, her silvery hair is glossy and the lines of her face seem less harsh. She smiles now, something that Rhaena never saw when the Queen was in the presence of the late King. 

It does her some measure of good to see the Queen with her granddaughter and son. But as she approaches, Viserys instantly steps between her and his mother, lilac eyes focusing up at her like a cat watching prey. Rhaena inclines her head nonetheless to the queen out of the respect she bears for the woman and then smiles at a shy Rhaenys, who clutches her grandmother's hand in tight, little hands. 

"Mother doesn’t want to talk to you, Rhaena," Viserys says matter of fact, trying to bear himself like a knight. But he's only seven and comes to her to sternum despite the fact his ego is thrice his size. He glares at her despite the way she cocks her eyebrow at him, "She's been sickly." 

"Your mother looks rather healthy, little dragon," Rhaena answers with a soft, sly smile. The boy's glare, if it could, gets worse. She overlooks him to Rhaella. "Where is your eldest, Your Grace? I've a matter to speak to him about." 

Rhaella's silvery blonde waves stroke the side of her face as she motions to a tower on the eastern side of the castle that looks toward the sun in the morning. Her voice is soft like silk, "I don't know what little you can do, my lady, seeing as he refuses to come out of his room." 

For a moment, she remembers Rook's words but doesn't put it past the Queen that her spy is still doing what she does best. She curtsies to the queen and wiggles her fingers at Rhaenys, who smiles shyly at her as she climbs the spiral stairs to the tower. It grows colder up there, and her breath steams from her mouth as she climbs to the top and is confronted with a door wrought of black wood and silver. The metal is carved into long, elegant swirls that resemble curling tongues of flame that curl upward and in small, delicate swirls. She lifts a hand to the metalwork, cocking her head and then straightening it so that she might raise a hand to the thick door. Before she can, there's a noise. 

It starts off as a soft strumming of silvery strings, harp strings. She knows the tune, it's a mother's lullaby, gentle and sweet like spring rain. It ebbs and flows like river water, only picking up here and there before settling like kicked up dust. Rhaena feels the music within herself, of memories of when her mother in all of her beauty, would sing to her when storms wound batter the Driftmark and frighten her to the point of tears. She remembers Elia, herself, singing the tune as Rhaenys slept on her lap when Rhaena would visit her. Rhaella sings it too, to Viserys, and to her unborn child. 

Tears sting her eyes for a moment, but she pushes them down, lifts a hand, and knocks. Immediately, the strumming stops and there's a heavy _thud_ behind the door, muffled by the wood. Rhaegar opens the door, hair braided in a neat plait on his shoulder, indigo eyes weary. 

"Lady Velaryon," He addresses, his voice clear as he opens the door wide enough so she might see the entirety of him. She gives him a cursory glance, noting the way his shoulders are bowing toward her and the gauntness to his face. He shifts as she looks at him, "Is there something you need?" 

Had Rhaena been a weaker woman, she might've flinched at the steel in his voice but she knew Ardrian Celtiger, a man who's sourness knew no bounds. Instead, she exhales a bit too noisily and holds herself like her mother taught her. With pride, with dignity. 

"I have news from Starfall, my prince. On Lady Stark and the Usurper's War," Rhaena tells him, clear of voice. Rhaegar's eyes blow wide and he straightens his spine as if that has awoken something within him. He steps off to the side and allows her inside and she shivers. His rooms are colder than her own, the pendant round her neck grows colder and colder as she takes a seat in a chair across from his harp. She folds her hands in her lap and focuses her mind on the letter. 

"What does Arthur say?" Rhaegar asks as he sits across from her, putting a hand on his knee. His bad arm. She sees the still raw wound open to the air, but he sees to be keeping it stable. 

Rhaena's throat knots nonetheless, "The Sword of the Morning is dead, Your Grace, along with Ser Oswell Whent and Gerold Hightower. Slain by Eddard Stark of Winterfell at the Tower of Joy." 

His eyes narrow and she sees the faintest bit of tension in his shoulders, but he motions for her to continue despite it. She clears her throat, "Robert Baratheon was slain on the field by my Faceless Man, however when the Lannister men stormed the Red Keep, your father was slain by Ser Jaime Lannister. His father, Lord Tywin, has taken the throne and married his daughter to Stannis Baratheon of Storm's End." 

And for a long moment, her words hang in the air, dead. She watches him for something that might give her insight into what is going on his mind, but there is nothing, not the faintest flicker of emotion save what little she has noticed. And then he leans back, looking away from her. 

His eyes are sorrowful, his voice slightly shaking as he speaks, "And.. Lyanna? What of her and our child?" 

She fidgets for a moment. Lyanna is dead, but the child had died as well… She closes her eyes. There had been another, Ashara's, that the Lady Dayne gave unto Eddard Stark when he returned Dawn to its place of rest. The babe apparently had been healthy. She figures that Rhaegar would have been angered at the mention that his son by Lyanna didn't survive, but his best friend's sister's had. 

Rhaena lifts her chin and says, "According to Lady Ashara Dayne, when Eddard brought her Dawn, there was no child and pronounced the babe dead along with its mother. Lyanna died of a hemorrhage and the babe was stillborn." 

He flinches, physically, then but his voice is a hush, "Thank you, Lady Velaryon. If that is all you wish to discuss with me, then I would ask you to take your leave." 

"Of course, my prince," She rises, bowing her head to him, "And my condolences to you." 

He doesn't say a word as she leaves with a heavy heart. 


	4. Rhaegar II

Two months pass. A third goes by…

His mother becomes so sickly that she can barely rise from her bed, Viserys becomes increasingly irritable and borderline vicious toward him, and Lady Velaryon… He doesn't see her much, nor does the thought pass him to speak to her. The image of her in front of his door and struck a sour, cold chord deep within him that had made him quietly loathe her. How could a woman hold such little sympathy? She did not possess a single drop of it, despite the fact that the Targaryen line lies in ruins and whatever plan she had begins to take a similar form.

The only good thing that happens is the gain of his sword arm. Months of a wound that seemingly refused to heal began to finally heal to the point that it lays now in a position of half scarred, half scabbed over. The girl of Lady Velaryon's - she calls herself Rook - had given him a salve of hyssop, thyme, and lemon grass to prevent the wound from infecting.

Nonetheless, he spends his time trying to regain the strength he lost. Ser Willem Darry proves to be decent practice partner, even in his older years. The first few weeks, he was so terribly sore that he swore that Darry had used the wide part of the blunt sword to smack him a dozen times, but the knight laughs and tells him that a wounded arm will cause some pain at first. It doesn't help his cracked dignity. Rhaegar recalls breaking his wrist when he first learned to ride Sunfyre, she'd thrown him and a misplaced twist had him landing on his arms and shoulders, leaving him with broken fingers and wrist.

The pain eases, though. Nothing he cannot deal with.

It's nothing when compared to the pain he has in his heart, for Lyanna, their child, and for his burning home. Little physical pain equals the heartache that pierces his chest; he had no choice but to run and he hates himself - and silently, Rhaena - for fleeing the Red Keep while his father's blood soaked the steps of the Iron Throne. He refuses to speak of the fact that he had let the only man he considered his best friend.. Rhaegar stops himself. No, he had ordered Arthur to stay, Oswell and Gerold as well. Perhaps, he thinks, he is a bigger monster and fool than his father ever had been.

Figuring he should spend his time being productive, especially if insomnia thinks it's such a grand idea to haunt his steps, he finds his way out into the main yard. Above him, the moonlight halos the obsidian dragons upon the walls, painting in varying shades of white and silver. He finds sword - the one without any onyx eyes because the fall into the Trident had sent them flying out - and examines the edge of the blade with his hand. The sword was a gift from Arthur, a lighter version of Dawn, with a snarling iron dragon.

The dragon heads, all three, are bent and he takes to trying to move them back to their original position. Yet, he finds himself unable to get them perfect, the way they'd been when Arthur had given him the sword all those years ago.

Just when he thinks to leave, he spies a flash of blonde and sound of soft slippers upon stone. Rhaena. Rhaegar is loathe to admit it, but he knows the sound of her near-silent gait on the steps of Dragonstone now. Sheathing his sword into its scabbard, he turns to see her walking beside Rook, reading over a message. There is a certain curiosity that he takes with her when she reads reports. If he gives Rhaena anything, he gives her the fact that she listens to everything that her spies bring her. 

"Hello, Lady Velaryon," His words startle her and she blinks owlishly up at him. The shock on her face makes him feel a sort of childish pride. Its unlike her to startle so easily.

Rhaena recovers despite it, raising a hand to Rook to dismiss her and then speaks when her ward is out of earshot, "Can you not sleep either?"

"I came to admire the moonlight," He can't help the mild snark, watching the dirty look that she points at him, "Yes, I cannot. I figure that occupying my hands will ease my insomnia."

"Clearly, that is doing little for you then," A smirk curls the edge of her rose colored lips. It's his turn to give her a dirty look, mostly due to the fact she is right - it's not doing a thing for him.

"Why are you out here well past midnight, dear lady? It cannot be because you enjoy the sea air."

"If I wanted the smell of the sea, I would have stayed in the Driftmark until I was withering and grey, thank you," She says stridently, "If I tell you why I am here, you must tell me why you are here as well."

She's brazen, he'll give her that.

"I find sleep to be difficult to find after we spoke last," He isn't about to lie to Lady Velaryon - no doubt she would catch it. He braces his elbows on his knees and doesn't deign to look at her, "I think of Lyanna… Of my best friend, of my wife and Aegon - all of which have died because of me. Because I was a fool and made perhaps impulsive decisions that I think rival my father's own…"

For a long moment, Rhaena is silent, her face clearly processing his words and it drives him mad to see her show no sympathy. Her tone is cool, "They have been dead for nearly eight months, my prince, let their ghosts rest."

"Is that what you would do? You would not feel regret for letting people die?"

And then… Then he sees an emotion that he has never seen before on her face. Something faint, that razes her normally proud stance to that of a bending flower in a dry heat. Folding her skirts underneath her, she sits beside him. It dawns on him that she is making herself smaller, shoulder hunching.

"Many people have died because of my decisions…" Her iron mask falters and her tone shifts to muffled grief. And like him, she doesn't look at him. Both of them are too proud, he thinks, but she is not as heartless as he originally believed. Her face is grave, "I have sent children no older than seven years old into enemy territory, only for them to never send word. Ones that I send after return with a skeleton that was found, often tortured."

Rhaena glances at him, her countenance returning to that of the woman that irks him so, "But I mourn them and move on. There's no point in reveling in one's grief, in my eyes. If we mourn, then we resign ourselves to a slow, agonizing death."

Her words strike his heart. Not because they are harsh, but because she is one of the few on this earth that speak so truthfully it could hurt. He had grown up in a den of snakes, only knowing truth in that of a handful of loyal knights. Yet, a woman that he knows plays the Game as well as Varys and, perhaps Tywin Lannister himself is unabashedly truthful.

"You look shocked."

Rhaegar gawks at her and meets her periwinkle stare, "You.. I thought you only lied."

"Please.." She scoffs and crumples the note in her dainty hands, "I have only ever been truthful with you. I do not plan on changing that methodology, merely because I know that I've not the best reputation."

"Because you have a sense of loyalty?"

"Because, I've a sense of decency."

For another moment, he's silent. He then offers her a ghostly smile, "Thank you.. Rhaena."

Rhaegar thinks that perhaps she's never been called by her actual name before, by the rather shocked look on her face. She folds her slender hands in her lap, "You are most welcome."

She watches him leave, he feels her eyes on him, and he traverses the halls to his rooms to find the letter that Rook had handed him that declared Lyanna's death. The strip of paper crumples in his hand. With a quick flick, the paper goes softly whistling into the brazier, the corners curling in the heat to become pitch black before becoming ash.


End file.
